Virtue
by LunaMoth116
Summary: In between battles physical and mental, a mage and a bard find a few moments of respite. Companion, of sorts, to "Grace" by Rose Tinted Contact Lenses. One-shot; F!Surana/Leliana. Fluff with a side of angst.


**Virtue**

_A/N: This was inspired by Rose Tinted Contact Lenses's excellent, heartbreaking short piece "Grace", featuring Leliana and Marjolaine pre-Blight. While this is a companion of sorts to that story, it's not required (though recommended) reading. (If you're interested, it's linked in my favorites.)  
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_I've had this scene in mind for a long time for the eventual fic I want to write featuring Arya Surana and Leliana, but until now haven't had anywhere to put it. So…for you, Rose, once again, and thank you. :)_

**Disclaimer: **_If it wasn't obvious by now, _Dragon Age _owns me. Not the other way around._

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><p>"<em>Let grace and goodness be the principal lodestone of thy affections. For love which hath ends, will have an end; whereas that which is founded on true virtue, will always continue."<em>

_~ Thomas Fuller_

She _listened_.

Leliana stares in amazement at the flower before her. Its silky white petals, pure and delicate as the clouds overhead, curl open to release a sweet, familiar scent. A scent that draws her back to the childhood that ended too soon, to the homeland she left behind so long ago, to the mother she scarcely remembers.

What she does recall, in perfect detail, is the night she and Arya sat up on watch, and the several failed attempts she had made at conversation, before Arya had finally relented and answered with more than two words. The talking, most of which Leliana had done, had turned to their childhoods, and the mothers neither truly knew, save for a few precious details.

"I…did get it right?" The elven woman holding out the blossom looks at her with apprehensive hope. "It is Andraste's Grace?"

Leliana tears her eyes away from the flower to meet those of the giver, soft and grey as a dove's wing. "Yes, yes it is. My mother's favorite." She takes it, and her fingertips linger on the other woman's, warm and smooth, before closing around the stem. An intoxicating tingle courses through her, one not quite like the familiar thrum of healing magic. "It smells just like she used to. Thank you. Thank you so much for remembering."

Color saturates Arya's pale cheeks as a smile finally curves her rosy lips. "You're welcome."

Leliana raises the flower to her face, the better to breathe in that marvelous smell, and a question occurs to her. As usual, it tumbles out before she can think it over.

"If I may ask – how did you know what it looked like?"

Arya tenses slightly, and for a moment Leliana is afraid she has offended, reminding the mage of her former life, but Arya's shoulders soon relax, and the air between them lightens.

"I remembered them from my herbalism books. They do make a lovely salve." Her smile broadens. "Great for protection from entropy spells, and sweet-smelling, too."

Just before she turns away, she quietly adds, "I'm glad you like it. And…I'm glad you're here, too."

Leliana's mouth opens slightly in surprise, but Arya does not see it, having begun the walk back to her tent.

She twirls the stem between her fingers, strokes the air-soft petals and tender leaves, but her attention is more focused on Arya, pace slow and careful, robes loose on her tiny frame. The late afternoon sun glints off her ebony plaits as her head turns in every direction, her inquisitive eyes soaking up every detail of her surroundings.

Leliana's heart, instead of lurching as it has these past several weeks, swells instead, barely able to contain the feelings within.

She _listened. _She _remembered_.

She _gave_.

* * *

><p>The fresh air grazes her face like a lover's caress, awakening and rejuvenating her senses. Leliana inhales deeply, shakes out her hair, lets the dust and grime coating her skin be whisked away on the breeze. She supposes they were in the Circle Tower no more than a day or two at most, but the atmosphere, oppressive in every sense of the word, would have made her believe it was months. Raising her face to the open sky, she lets the quiet peace of the night wash over her, relieving her strain.<p>

She hears a quiet shuffling behind her, and turns to see Arya bringing up the rear, her boot-clad feet trudging in timid steps. She turns back, once, to look at her home of fourteen years, and Leliana is astonished to see how small she truly is next to the immense tower, which seems to stretch within reach of the glimmering stars. The half-moon casts an unearthly glow on the tower's white stone, reflecting onto its progeny's tattooed, tearstained face and tattered, bloodstained robes. The black plaits are matted, askew; the grey eyes a brewing tempest.

Arya is silent and solemn as they ride across the lake and reunite with the others. _You are not to blame_, Leliana wants to tell her. _You did what you could. You saved who remained. _But she knows words intended as comfort would come as anything but.

It is she who finds a campsite a short distance away, with her leader merely giving a small nod of approval. By the time she has finished pitching her tent, the mage is nowhere to be seen.

She asks around discreetly, and learns that after Arya had set up her tent, she wandered off without a word to anyone, staff in hand. Her pack is still here, though, so no one is too worried.

Leliana briefly entertains the idea of going off to look for her, but decides against it. She remembers all too well how it feels to have your home and friends suddenly torn out from under you, with nowhere to land and no one to catch you.

After a few minutes' thought, she knows what to do instead.

She pulls the Andraste's Grace from her pack, along with a blue hair ribbon like the one adorning her braid, its shade complementing that of her eyes. Deft fingers, hastened by nerves, loop and fasten the ribbon into a long-practiced square knot. Slowly, yet decisively, she walks to Arya's tent.

She hesitates only a moment before slipping the ribbon-tied flower inside.

A memory comes to her, unbidden, swift and painful as any backstab. The giving of a different flower prior to a night's intrigue, to one who had meant just as much to her, if not more. Of finding the flower, and not her lover, the morning after…

She shakes off her doubts with a wisp of wind. No. This time is different. It will be.

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><p>The next morning, Arya is still quiet, but smiles slightly in greeting at breakfast. She says little except to Leliana, whom she asks for assistance with laundering her robes.<p>

She gladly obliges. As they rise, a flash of white catches Leliana's eye.

A small white flower sits at Arya's waist, tucked in the belt from which hang her potions and pouches. The ends of a simple blue ribbon around the stem flutter, with a gentle beckoning, in the calm breeze carrying the flower's sweet scent.

Their eyes meet, storm clouds to fallen rain, and after a moment the elf graces the bard with a smile that rivals the rising sun.

Only one question comes to Leliana's mind, soon quieted by her quickening pulse.

How could the Chantry ever teach fear of anyone like her?

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><p><em>AN: My thanks to the following:_

_Rose Tinted Contact Lenses, for the inspiration, and – more importantly – always being an enjoyable person to talk with. :)_

_BioWare, for letting me play in their sandbox once again._

_You, of course, for reading. Thanks for stopping by, and hope you enjoyed. :)_


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